


Sleepyhead (υπναράς)

by tribunal



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But the WoL/14th can be read as whatever you interpret them as, F/M, Fridge Horror, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:49:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23975551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tribunal/pseuds/tribunal
Summary: (Originally posted for a zine)You can feel yourself unraveling, bit by precarious bit--though, how sane a member of the Convocation can be (truly), is anyone’s guess--and you know time, for one as limitless as you, is still so much of a factor.The Fourteenth and their tether amid dreams.
Relationships: 14th Member of the Convocation of Fourteen/Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Reader, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Kudos: 15
Collections: Ktísis: A Final Fantasy XIV Fanzine





	Sleepyhead (υπναράς)

**Author's Note:**

> This was a piece originally posted to the Ktísis zine, which was available at the Twitter handle @amaurotine_zine. It was my first contribution to a zine, so I was super excited to be chosen to join in, and I'm excited to share this with y'all!
> 
> I've got more E-S/WoL and E-S/14th pieces in the works, as well as Y'shtola/WoL, so please look forward to that!

_Fourteenth_ , they call you. _Dreamdweller_ , you prefer.

Like the fair folk of eld, you too have a dalliance in the realm of dream-things. It takes from you, as most magics do, pulling from you and ripping apart in a way other creational magics have never. A foolhardy endeavor, but the others--in their Convocational robes, hands clasped and heads bowed--would not deign, think the world glimpsed behind one’s closed lids is nothing in comparison to the world around. And yes, there is truth in that, but there is also truth in imagination, in what could be from what has not yet become.

So, you dream. Listless as the void Zodiark birthed you from, you flit to and fro, but these imaginings cost, demand penance be paid. There are mornings you groggily stumble to Elidibus’ summonings, barely propping your head up on your hands as he narrows all-seeing eyes at you, disapproving of your every breath. _Perhaps, Fourteenth, you might find merit in sleep as opposed to dreaming._

There are afternoons where Igeyohrm slips purloined biscuits in your bag (overflowing with diagrams your dream-self knows better than your ramshackle reality can parse), hiding a half-amused smile behind the thin veneer of a sneer. _You’ll work yourself to the void, and then what use will your research be to us when no one else can read your notes?_

There are nights, difficult ones, where you call forth the ever-stalwart Architect, a creator in reality as you are in imaginings. It is not a duty he’s ever wanted--you being deemed his cross to bear in these dark moments--but he has never been one to shirk the duties Zodiark has placed on his shoulders. He keeps you solid, even when you are so incapable of separating fading fantasy from harsh reality, spinning slurred hallucinations faster than your whittling aether can hold. You’re his responsibility in this life and the grand whatever-after, should your shared god be merciful.

He approaches you, always, with a wary set to his features, determination casting long shadows along his brow. Hair is unbound, tendrils of finely-spun silver winking from within the confines of his cloak. And, in return, you reach out to him, carefully, with fingers sticky from aetherial creation, a thin layer of grime from the meddling of bringing thought to life. He pulls back from your touch, but you beckon him, hands--ichor-dark and honey-sweet--pressing the tips of drenched fingers against the stubborn set of pursed lips, unyielding even as you trace the harsh bow of his upper lip. 

“Taste and see, Hades.”

His lower lip juts out, trembles at the sensation of your touch even as rapt gaze sticks to your own dreamlike expression, seeing him as though through a thick fog. His hand connects to yours, interlacing fingers so that the honey-tinged aether binds you, hands clasped. But his gaze never parts from your own, tracing your features with his eyes as if committing them to memory.

You chance a smile, genuine behind the murky fog separating your conscious mind from the worry only barely seeping into Hades’ gaze, careful with this gift even as he offers it so effortlessly. 

(Easily, you can piece together the strands of aether lacing together unconscious and consciousness, strings unknown to polite company, and yet...You would give up the unconscious realm immediately for his ability to allow this emotion without the veil of dreamwalking shrouding your mind.)

_There is something here, I know it._ You tell him this in lucid moments, when you are blessedly free from the meanderings of your unshackled, unconscious mind. _There is something yet hidden to us when we sleep. That is the key, Hades._

But now, he simply holds his hand against your own, stare intense in the low-light chill of your study. “Are you near done, then?” Low, even, his voice lulls you further into that crafted slumber rather than pulls you out. You’ve figured out nothing yet, simply have more notes you won’t be able to decipher come morning, to say nothing of Hades’ own neat penmanship hidden from you, bundled quickly under one arm any time you fix your lips to ask. He reassures you, though: Neither you nor he are any closer to parsing the mystery tethering the physical body to the unconscious mind than the night previous.

You can feel yourself unraveling, bit by precarious bit--though, how sane a member of the Convocation can be (truly), is anyone’s guess--and you know time, for one as limitless as you, is still so much of a factor.

Funny, that.

“Almost. Dream a while longer with me, dear Hades.”

His lips thin, a line of concern masked as outright irritation. He’s quite good at that, has only gotten better since his time walking unconscious realms alongside you, the tether to your roaming mind. But his irritation remains a mask, and there are enough mysteries for you to unravel without burdening your shaky mind with pulling apart his own secrets as well. For another time, another life perhaps, if this one does not bear fruit.

Your hand separates from his own to will itself above your head, spraying the air between you shimmery with dream-thickness. Your under-breath murmurings fold into an oft-spoken incantation as honey aether dissipates between you. If you cannot unravel the mysteries of the aetherial plane in an eve, the least you can do is grant Amaurot pleasant slumber.

There have been enough horrors for us all. And more to come, if you’ve read it right.

“There.” Your smile is thin, even to your own measure. “There.” A repeating, softer still, as though by that word will the fog of dreams become less dense, willing you to proper sleep. A yawn, unbidden, comes from a wide-opened mouth. Ah, finally.

“Take me to bed?” You usually punctuate it with a suggestive brow-waggle, eager to summon up the carmine that blots Hades’ cheeks, deep wine. But your soul simply isn’t up to the task, not this time. It is little more than a plaintive plea, and, when your hand clasps Hades’ this time, it is free from the oppressive aether sticking to it.

He leads you gently to your room, a delicateness in his touch you’d wager strictly reserved for his own creations. You’d wonder what that makes you--if not an unwelcome fixture--if you weren’t fighting slumber’s own claws so firmly entrenched in you.

“Next time.” You promise, patting his hand as he gingerly lays you down. The piercing gold of his gaze is the last thing you see before you fall into rest’s embrace. Fitting, he plays stalwart over you. Fitting, you slip away from him.

This won’t be the last time.


End file.
